


Good Night; Sleep Tight

by Solar_Sylvilagus



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Child Death, Dissociation, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22687645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solar_Sylvilagus/pseuds/Solar_Sylvilagus
Summary: Later, she's sat down again, and her uncle is avoiding her eyes and sucking on his teeth. Drums his fingers on his knee and rubs the back of his neck, and it's oh so obvious he was told to talk to her because he's never this awkward. Eventually he speaks, but it sounds hollow. “You know you can talk to me, if need be.”
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28





	Good Night; Sleep Tight

**Author's Note:**

> This is a heavy one, and a loosely disguised vent. I'm fine, before anyone asks.

It's dark, and Wendy rolls out of her bedroll and peeks through the tentflap. Ms. Wickerbottom isn't in sight, either she's decided to get a snack or tend to a different firepit, but there's no need to look a gift horse in the mouth. So she forgoes her slippers and takes a lantern, keeping it dim as she move silently over beefalo wool carpet. It's smell has faded over time, but it's still rough on her feet.

She avoids alerting anyone by climbing over the doors instead of opening then, holding the lantern between her teeth and Abigail's flower tightly in her fist. If it were to slip out of her pocket now, it would ruin everything.

Once she's safely out of sight, she lets the lantern brighten and stops sneaking. The ground is spongey here, where rain's soaked it and water wells up wherever she steps and seeps between her toes. When she sets her lantern down and replaces the lightbulb, she wipes her feet dry on the hem of her nightgown. The wet feet on spider silk is just a step too far in her mind, and Wendy picks bits of grass off her legs while she's at it.

The spiders had been moved recently, and their den is still small but writhing with potential.

She takes a step onto the silk and smiles when a spider comes to greet her. It gurgles, hissing as it follows her off the web.

She kicks it over. On it's back it's legs work uselessly, and she keeps a foot on it's belly to pin it down. She grabs onto on of it's leg and pulls.

She pulls them all.

She lures another spider out.

She makes a bedroll from the plentiful grass, and lays on her back with Abigail's flower laying on her stomach, contemplating the empty sky.

Minutes before dawn, she clicks the lantern off.

* * *

The colors are washed out and grey, and Abigail floats next to her. Her eyes are impassive.

A vacated body has already wasted away, tatters of a nightgown stretched across pale, pristine bones. Morbid. Dawn's light gleams off them, refracted through dewdrops and painting spots of rainbow over the bedroll.

Spider blood is cooling on the ground, and has already gone crumbly on what remains of the gown's sleeves. Added to it is her own.

Wendy floats, silent, next to her sister.

Distantly, she hears Webber's gurgling chitters as he stamps on the webs, unable to draw out a spider. Tears are in all of his eyes, and he jumps like a tantruming child. Another bedroll has been tossed across her skeleton, as if to offer it some sort of privacy.

Webber tries. He does with all his heart, staring at her ghost with pleading, watery eyes. She doesn't move. He wipes his eyes on his wrist and picks up his backpack, making promises to be back soon.

* * *

It's Wickerbottom he brings with, and her face is schooled into the perfect mix of concern and stoicism. Showing she's worried, that she cares, but not enough to worry the children more. Wendy's seen it before. She knows what comes next.

A heart, a gasp of breath, a needle in her arm.

She doesn't cry this time.

* * *

Wickerbottom sits her down sometime later, when her hands are still stinging and cold from having life forced back into her. She doesn't listen, instead picking at a forming blister on the crook of her thumb. Rubs the tiny spot of pain and dips a blunt nail into it, letting it burst and watching it bleed. How inconvenient it is, to be tossed back in time with every death. It will take time before her hands callous again. And again, they are the pale, soft hands of a child who has never worked hard in her life. Wickerbottom notices, and her hands are pulled apart and a piece of honeyed papyrus is put on the open wound.

The frown the old woman is wearing draws her face down in unappealing ways, making her look like some haggard old hag in the middle of the woods. Fitting, given that's what she is.

A frown which only draws deeper as Wendy's lips twitch in a smile.

* * *

Later, she's sat down again, and her uncle is avoiding her eyes and sucking on his teeth. Drums his fingers on his knee and rubs the back of his neck, and it's oh so obvious he was told to talk to her because he's never this awkward. Eventually he speaks, but it sounds hollow. “You know you can talk to me, if need be.”

If need be. Hah.

Her pigtails hit her chin when she shakes her head, and Maxwell sighs. “May I see your arms?”  
  
Her pigtails hit her chin.

“And why not?”  
  
He already knows why not. She doesn't know why she bothers. Why he bothers.

She rolls up her sleeves. Maxwell stops sucking on his teeth, trying to project an aura of knowing what should be done. Of parental courage and care.

“What did you use?”  
  


As if she'd tell him. They sit in silence for a while longer. Maxwell sighs again, stands, and hesitates. An awkward hand rests on her shoulder. She doesn't bother to push it away.

* * *

Later, she peels the honeyed papyrus off and scraps the honey from her skin and from the paper for something to do. The blister has already begun healing, and she sticks her thumb into her mouth to dig her incisors into it. Brings her knees to her chin and chews on her thumb, staring at the wall of her tent.

Webber brings his bedroll into her tent, arranging it and his blankets carefully. She says nothing as he nestles down.

“Good night, Wendy.”

“....Good night, Webber.”  
  


She doesn't sleep. The hound's tooth under her pillow calls to her, but she stares at Webber's sleeping face and hesitates. His mouth is hanging open, but he doesn't snore. The spider hair on the side of his face and chin are mussed, both with sleep and drool. He looks peaceful.

She scratches her legs with her fingernails until it stings, until something hot and wet wells up. Her shoulders relax, finally, and she closes her eyes.

She feigns sleep until Webber has already left for the day, knowing her hands are smeared with her own blood. Once she's sure he's gone, she sits up and soaks her sleeves with her spit and wipes away the dried blood on both her hands and legs. The scratches don't look too bad, but she closes the tentflaps tightly and picks out a long skirt for the day.

Ms. Wickerbottom supervises her as she stands before the moon glass mirror to brush her hair and tie her pigtails. She doesn't notice the change in usual outfit, or doesn't suspect it. Eggs and bacon are washed down with a glass of milk, ''to promote healthy bone growth''. Her bones looked fine to her, and beefalo milk has a distinct odor, but she chugs it anyway without complaint. She'll just have to brush her teeth more thoroughly today. Ms. Wickerbottom supervises that too, and when she's deemed ready for the day, she's given a kiss on the forehead and wished a pleasant day.

It makes her want to cry. She doesn't. Instead she makes sure her shoes are tied properly and goes to let herself out of camp.

“Wait for your Uncle, dear.”

Blunt nails dig into the palms of her hands, but she nods. She resents this coddling. She stares at the gate. Abigail floats nearby.

She only snaps out of it when Maxwell opens the gate for her, saying “Ladies first.” and gesturing grandly. She is not nearly as amused by it as she was as a toddler, but she trudges forward regardless. Ever the showman, his smile doesn't falter as she huffs past him, and he closes the door securely before following. He makes no attempt to pass her and lead, other than reminding her of today's agenda.

Somehow, that makes her angrier.

* * *

“Here, watch.” Shiny gold contrasts Maxwell's glove starkly. With far more fanfare than necessary, wiggling his fingers and saying fake magic words, the gold leaves his hand. No doubt hidden in his sleeve or something of the sort.

A candy apple is produced in it's place. She continues frowning. His smile wavers a bit, but he still proclaims “Ta-da!” in that babying voice. He holds it out to her. She picks up her pickaxe again.

Later, when they've loaded up on rocks and gold, she sees a package in her pack. A candy apple, wrapped in wax paper to keep the caramel from making a mess.

She tosses it into the ocean.


End file.
